Author's note: so for those of you who don't follow me on tumblr ... my iPhone deleted all my notes the other night. And I couldn't manage to retrieve them despite my better efforts. I had drafts of the next two chapters written on it. I was going to quit and give up, but I was really looking forward to posting this in the absence of a new episode tonight. Because it's my first Tom Bond-inclusive chapter. So I rewrote this today. I'll be the first to admit that it's a little choppy. I got impatient writing it a second time. All the same - onward! Lizzington/Tom Bond/general!Blacklistery waits for no one!

It was decidedly disturbing how quickly she developed a penchant for playing in Reddington's world. It was one of deceit, fuelled almost singularly by fear to counter the tremendous distrust possessed by those within it. Where, she wondered, was the fear that she expected to feel entering such circles as these? A shred of fear might have been appropriate, but she had developed a powerful survival instinct over the years she had spent in the FBI, which she claimed was understandable of a child who had raised herself.

It didn't start as smoothly as she would have liked. That ease, that (false?) poise came only with some degree of practice. Her first entrance was abysmal, in her mind a devastating failure.

"You're not coming with me," she couldn't recall quite when she realized that, studying Red in the backseat of the car as Dembe, reliably silent, drove them through downtown.

"No."

That was all he said for a moment, and in the seconds that passed, her heartbeat kicked into overtime. Its unsteady rhythm pounded against her breast agonizingly as she tried to imagine standing in that room, surrounded by men and women of villainous character, posing pretty as a picture as an adversary of Raymond Reddington. She, Elizabeth Scott, Quantico graduate, black site regular.

"People tend to send intermediaries," she thought momentarily of the state of the union, thinking of that poor, unphotogenic or irrelevant representative who was left to wait elsewhere and watch the ordeal from television, lest something go terribly wrong. Someone left to take care of the country—or, in this case, the business—if all else failed. "Believe me, Lizzie, you wouldn't be here if I had another option."

How cruel it seemed then that years of law enforcement had failed to prepare her for this. The other side suddenly seemed so foreign. This was far from the type of clandestine operation she would typically partake in. This was ... a masquerade, she thought, with unbearably penalties if she was somehow compromised.

"What do I do?" loathing the sound of her voice—uncharacteristically young and irritatingly uncertain—she kept her question brief.

"It's your average dinner party," he said, as if this explained everything. "You ought to read this."

She opened the thin dossier he placed on her knees, "'Claire Barnes'?"

"My favourite girl from Ann Arbor."

"I don't know anything about computer programming."

"Just do that voodoo that you do so well, and we'll talk."

Elizabeth fought the urge to double over and hug her knees to her chest.

Whatever gift Reddington thought she possessed, she feared he was entirely wrong. Her job required her to identify patterns, to note distinguishing themes and tie one crime to another, to an attitude, to a behaviour. Her specialty, she thought then, was nothing but reading and interpreting evidence. She was a motif hunter-and she could hardly work without data. Certainly, she had always had something of a sixth sense when it came to pegging human nature, but that was an apparently-inconsistent skill that was not presently in effect.

"You trust me enough for that?" she dared to ask, her tongue dry and cumbersome.

"Of course."

Surely he was being facetious. That, she thought, or he knew the power that he had over her with his promise and the threat of his reputation.

"That," he added, "and you'll be going with Luli."

How transparent she felt under the stares of her company. She thought she had conquered her fear of criminals by understanding them years earlier. She began to understand the power of circumstance and ill fortune in their lives. She had come to see that this path was so rarely a choice, just a tragically misguided attempt to regain control. On Reddington's level, she wondered if this still applied, or was there a more sociopathic gamble at play? A simple but dire need to be endangered, high risk for high reward? In her new role, her perceived control shattered in delicate pieces around her. They were malevolent and volatile, here to network for plots of vindictive malice. From the outside looking in, she thought them manipulators in a game she could still win; looking now from within, Elizabeth was certain that this was a new breed of animal.

Any minute they would see through her.

She might as well have worn her badge on her belt.

She had all but introduced herself as Agent Scott.

They were going to rip her limb from limb until all that was left was her pathetic talking head, iterating urgently, "I work for Raymond Reddington," making a last ditch attempt to garner respect while bleeding out.

It didn't even occur to her until much later that she might be recognized by someone in the room. Now or in the future. Had Reddington had such a thought and proceeded all the same? If was another idea on the growing list that she did not wish to contemplate in depth.

He had told her to just "play her part," as if it was so easy. All she wished was to leave from the moment she arrived. She thought the worst of those in her midst by virtue of their careers and was terrified to boot. She checked her watch absurdly often, until Luli, gentle as she was, kicked her under the table softly, silently imploring her to stop.

The information that was passed burned her ears. Instinctively, she wanted to blurt everything out in a phone call to Cooper. Meera would have been fascinated, given her CIA history. Elizabeth would have loved to show Bryan up (she was loathe to admit it, but she was considered quite brilliant before him, second only to Donald ... Bryan's being there was somehow an insult to both of them). Her team would have been chomping at the bit. But these were her secrets now. Until concrete evidence landed at the post office, she knew nothing.

"How did it go?" Reddington seemed quite disinterested in the car. She was inclined to suspect otherwise.

Luli offered a grin back as she slid through the passenger side door, "Business as usual."

"How is our friend Zamani?"

"Good to go."

"Music to my ears."

It occurred to Elizabeth then that business had been done without her even realising it. This detail alone frightened her. Although she entered with no background information, she hadn't even tried to follow the plot. She was too busy looking for signs—and she didn't even know what those signs were.

"Lizzie," he turned to her with a glaringly eager smile. Reddington's hand clapped over her knee but briefly. A gesture of camaraderie,"Who all did you meet tonight?"

She fought her instinct to look at Luli for validation. She reluctantly found a friend in the other woman tonight, or at the very least a decent ally. Regardless, she knew full well that the question was for her alone. Nervously, she rattled off what names she could remember. Most of them, she thought, too sick to be proud. Petering out towards the end, she concluded, "... and someone named Gina."

He laughed. That was all. A brief chuckle in the otherwise quiet car. It left her faintly horrified without knowing why-yet simultaneously frustrated, for she felt the laugh was for her benefit. To offend or perhaps intrigue. She couldn't ask and give him the satisfaction. Besides, her mind was occupied by her churning stomach and the truth that she would inevitably have to share.

"I didn't find anything," the words came out at a reasonable pace, for which she was proud.

His eyes met hers for a moment. Did Reddington see the nausea coursing through her, her pale cheeks, the faint rings of sweat sinking through her shirt? She had adopted mechanisms to counter the disappointment (the word seemed more forgiving than anxiety) that she felt in times such as these—times of failure—and called on them now as she counted her breaths quietly in the car as they fell between lines of dialogue.

"Alright."

That was it.

He presented as neither surprised nor displeased. It would have been wrong to ask for a heavy handed scolding, or a devastating dismissal that sent her covering back to the FBI, knowing that she was no longer pure enough to exist among their ranks yet not sufficiently tainted to join the masked crusaders of discord. anarchy and treason. She had feared but indeed expected this. Its absence did not relieve her as it should have.

If it had been Reddington's intention to send her in with Luli ... Again, she feared she was an unwitting pawn in a larger game. Had he put her there deliberately to feed her to the sharks, expecting them to smell blood in the water and feast? Or did he want to see how far she would go, prove his power over her? Queasy and on the verge of assuming fetal position in the backseat, she was relieved to be dropped off with a cheerful, "We'll be in touch."

And, indeed, they were. It didn't take long for him to contact him again, and again after that. It was Reddington she personally accompanied thereafter, joining him on several "one-on-one" (the term was to be used loosely) meetings. People were wary of her—rightfully. She became increasingly familiar with her alias, an identity that she developed with Reddington and Luli as if it were a game, albeit one with high stakes. Reddington encouraged her presence as if it was she who gained from their escapades. He treated his teachings like a great privilege, like something she should have been honoured by. It was not an honour. It endangered her. He was making light of her position, creating a mockery of the danger that she placed herself in. Every time they met, he risked compromising her—and Reddington was a man of acute intelligence and far from naïve. He knew what he was doing to her. Spreading Elizabeth too thin didn't seem to concern him. He seemed to possess undue confidence that, when worst came to worst, he could save her—or himself, she ought to have been clear; she hadn't the faintest idea what he would risk for her.

"I picked out something for you to wear. It's on your bed."

Reddington was seemingly impervious to the incredulous looks she exceeded at delivering in times like these. How unfazed he was by the shadow of her scowl! Time and time again, he let himself in, and, time and time again, she glared at him for his insolence.

She had been out with he and his band of merry men three times by then, and each time felt slightly more comfortable (in itself a concern). Naturally, this was not to be confused with a clear conscience. She spent night after night making constellations out of the patterns in the stucco, and what sleep she took was fitful at best. It didn't help that he apparently had the keys to the castle and could sweep in without so much as a moment's notice, invading the only place on earth that had ever felt anything like home. But then, she knew home had died. Home was whenever Don was, therefore home was six feet under the ground.

"What's for breakfast?" Her lids were heavy, and they strained to focus on Don despite the bright morning light that gently flooded the room. Was it only in her memory that he was illuminated like this, glowing in the soft sunlight that streamed through the curtains of the bedroom? Why was he, a man loved and lost, so transcendently beautiful even while performing such a menial task as buttoning his shirt?

"I don't know. But whatever it is, I'm sure you'll make it delicious."

Both knowing perfectly well that there was no way he expected her to cook anything, her instinct might have been to hit him with her pillow. Half-asleep, instead she studied the motions taken by his hands, "You missed one."

His eyes flickered down to study his error.

"Let me."

His haloed silhouette grew nearer to her, lowered on to the edge of the mattress as she reluctantly pulled herself upright.

"What are you wearing today?"

"Hmm," her voice passed through her lips, dreamlike and far-away. It wasn't like her to stray from pantsuits at work, but enticed by the weather she replied, "Maybe my red dress."

"Need any help putting that on?"

Her hands lifted as the final button on his shirt slipped through its corresponding hole. Collapsing back onto her pillow, with a sleepy half-smile, her eyes sought his.

"I need breakfast."

Nostalgia was a gut-wrenching compulsion she could do nothing about.

She knew the second that she saw it that she simply would not wear what Reddington had chosen. Strewn across her coverless duvet like a crimson stain, it mocked her. Bleeding over the mattress at his behest. Had she selected it herself, the emotional response would undoubtedly have been less potent, but selected by the man Don hated most, the insult was unbearable.

In its place, she selected a top she frequented around the office, partnering it with a black skirt. She saw his anticipation flicker and face on his features when she came downstairs. Her breath caught in her throat, but she was too angry—too offended—not to comment.

"I'm not wearing that."

He made a dismissive gesture in response to her defiance, saying only, "You're a winter, not an autumn. Stop wearing olive."

She grabbed her navy coat rather than arguing. There seemed little point.

"Where are we going?" rather than offering protest, she found herself at point in her relationship with Reddington where it was better to simply go where he led her.

"To a party."

"Of course we are."

Of all the days to be bitter with Reddington, this was not the ideal one. The room looked like a proper celebration. She realised within a matter of moments that it was. They were here to speak to someone quite particular. Anything else on the property was just noise. She would have been quite content with this, accepted it as one of Reddington's unnecessary and rather unwelcome lessons and been on her way. Had they been in, seen their contact, and been out in a matter of moments, no harm would have been done, but Reddington commented lightly, "It really is a party," in that flippant way of his.

"Who else is here?"

"Perry and Dechambou," his eyes indicated the direction of his … peers? Elizabeth hadn't yet decided how to refer to Reddington's acquaintances. She could only assume that he referred to the elegant looking woman and her rather roguish-seeming acquaintance, and not the teenage girl trying her first sip of champagne at the kitchen island. The two seemed to be in conversation with someone, but the back of that someone's head wasn't sufficiently telling.

"I think you'd like Laurence," Reddington was saying. "She's a dynamite woman. I'll introduce you."

She didn't especially care, nor did she think she had much choice. A few steps closer allowed her a glimpse of the man the two were speaking to. He looked immediately familiar, enough so that she tore herself from Reddington's side in a rather ungainly display of urgency. Her heart throbbed again, kicking into nervous overdrive. His hair was shorter, his beard a slightly more aggressive growth across his chin than she remembered, but—

Stumbling past party-goers, although she still hadn't the slightest idea what was being celebrated, her knee rammed into a chair, and her side into the corner of a table. She was accustomed to bumps and bruises. There was no point letting a bit of pain slow her down. The room had become very small, suffocatingly so. The door was in sight, and she collapsed through it, craving air, not certain she'd breathed since she realised. If Reddington was bothered by her disappearance, that was his problem. Fuck him. She leaned against the door frame, letting the cool evening air soothe the hot surface of her skin.

Elizabeth didn't have much faith in the odds that this was mere coincidence. She didn't believe in tricks of fate. That certainty spurred the question … why would Tom be there, and why did he know Perry and Dechambou?